


The Changeling Prince: A Faerie Tale

by glorious_clio



Series: Star Wars is a Faerie Tale [4]
Category: Star Wars, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Backstory, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 19:25:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7653754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glorious_clio/pseuds/glorious_clio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>FN-2187 is well on his way to be the First Order's top Stormtrooper, but the truth of it is, something sets him apart from the rest of the cadets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Changeling Prince: A Faerie Tale

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Changeling Prince](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/218545) by glorious.clio. 
  * Inspired by [Instructions](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/178765) by Neil Gaiman. 
  * Inspired by [The Changeling Prince | playmoss](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/252115) by glorious clio. 



> Thank you once again to lalalalalawhy, who is so wonderful and encouraging! <3 
> 
> The poetry in the story comes from a Neil Gaiman poem called "Instructions" which you could generously say I "remixed." I took a lot of inspiration from that poem over the years, and I highly recommend you read it. If you like Gaiman and poetry, I mean.
> 
> I also created a playlist that you're welcome to listen to while you read, and you can find that here:

_ _

_Once upon a time, a queen gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. He was the seventh son of a wise and good king. All rejoiced in his birth: the people of the planet came out to celebrate, his six older brothers all kissed the baby fondly and promised and planned adventures to share as seven princes.The king and queen called their newest son Deimne and he was handsome and strong. The baby was so beautiful, with his smooth dark brown skin, dark eyes, soft curls. The queen delighted in nursing her son, wrapping him in beautiful white blankets, talking softly to him. The king liked to carry him about when addressing matters of state, and his older brothers liked to tickle him, coo over him, try and interest the baby in a rattle or plush toy._

_But great beauty often inspires the greatest jealousy.  One month after the baby was so joyously received into the galaxy, he was taken from his family by the queen of the Faeries, who flits between realms and planets, master of time and distance. In Deimne’s place, she left a sickly changeling child and fled into the moonless night._

_Upon waking, his mother immediately noticed that her beautiful baby was replaced by a hideous, pale, weak... thing. She warned her husband and then went to a wise woman who was rumored to be a good witch, a bent crone with flashing eyes. She advised the queen to toss the changeling into a crackling fire, and her son would be returned to her. The queen did just that, returning to the Great Hall. She spoke to her husband of the wise woman’s advice. He held her hand as she tossed the hideous changeling child into the inferno that blazed on their great hearth._

_Sadly, though the changeling disappeared in a burst of ash, the jealous faerie queen did not return their beloved Deimne from the depths of the faerie realm._

 

 

 

 

 

He didn’t remember his real name. No one here did. He was FN-2187. If he had a family, they were long gone now. This was his family. The First Order. Parents, brothers, sisters. They were all he had. He slept in a cell in a room full of other cells. There was no pleasure in sleep. He ate in a mess-hall with his siblings, full of children raised for a purpose. There was no pleasure in it.

They were all humans, they had that in common. Some looked different, but all were the same.  

They were trained the same. He had a few possessions, issued by the First Order. Including a datapad, the oldest one, given to him because he was the runt. He learned his lessons, and read his assignments on the datapad.

One day was different, though. He found a story on it. Not a training scenario, not schematics, but an honest to goodness _story._ It reminded him of his dreams, dreams he didn’t talk about.

FN-2187 didn’t mind having the oldest datapad.

 

 

 

 

 

_Faerieland was a shadowy, dark place on a distant planet impossible to get to. Faeries are beautiful, dangerous, and shadowless. It was impossible to tell that when they are in their own realm, as it was a dark a place as you can imagine, lit only by starlight and by candles. Time moved differently there, it oozes and pulses to its own fancy, none could control or measure it. A day can feel like a year; a year like a day. There were dances and larks and enjoyments. There was sumptuous food and heavy wines. Everything, everything, was first and foremost for a fey’s own pleasure in the darkness._

_They have no shadows to pull them into sleep, nor to temper their moods. It was hard to notice, because there was no light there._

_The faerie court reveled under the rule of a capricious queen, who blended into her world like smoke in the dark. She ruled absolutely, and because her court was constantly full of merriment and beauty and strangeness, it never occurred to anyone to leave or revolt. Beauty meant danger, as it did everywhere, and the queen was the most beautiful of all.  She had a voice like shark skin- smooth one way, rough the other._ _  
_

_The faeries welcomed the boy into the court with open arms. He was, afterall, a thing of beauty, something for the faeries to delight in, and he was spoiled and pampered, but then left to his own devices as they moved on to the next shiny distraction. He was remembered, and forgotten, then remembered again. They never called him by his name, simply “the changeling prince.”_

_This suited the prince just fine._

_The queen cast a glamour over him so he could not see his shadow, or remember that he had a name or a soul. But it was a fragile thing. Faerie glamours often are. The prince liked to leave the great hall, at times. He swam in rivers that looked like liquid emeralds. He climbed hills that glinted like amethysts. The oceans were sweet and had coral beds of spun sugar. The forests were lush and cool, they sparkled and shone with precious metals and stones. He climbed trees made of gold, or silver, or diamond. He met beings and fey from all corners of the known galaxy; pretty things like himself that were brought to the court on the particular whims of the queen. For the most part, other beings had trouble adjusting to the smoke and perma-darkness of the court, to the never ending dancing and the lavish parties._

_Sometimes, the changeling prince would bring a present to the faerie queen._

_“Mother, look, I have brought you a tulip of rubies,” he might say, not knowing of his true mother who is still searching for her son._

_“How gallant you are, my prince,” the queen may reply, delighting in the comfort that the other queen would never find what she had taken._

_She would pinch his cheek that had flushed prettily, run her fingers through curls that were darker than faerieland, and kiss his forehead and send him to the dance.  And so the years passed, or perhaps they were only days, and the changeling prince grew into a fine and strong and handsome youth._

 

 

 

 

 

The day they got their cadet uniforms, there was an undercurrent of excitement, but all FN-2187 could feel was that this was more of the same. Some of the cadets had nicknames by now, FN-2199 was Nines, FN-2000 was called Zeroes, and FN-2003 was Slip, as he was the smallest. They called FN-2187 Eight-Seven because it was a shorter name, not out of any sense of camaraderie, and only because they were punished for calling him Runt.  

Eight-Seven said weird things, so no one liked him. He tried to keep his head down and out of Captain Phasma’s sights. It was impossible, though. Captain Phasma noticed everything.

“If you’re looking for your mother, you better look somewhere else,” Slip mocked. They were given permission to remove their helmets after a day of drills.

“Yeah, Eight-Seven, stop being such a mama’s boy,” Nines teased. She was running a towel through her short hair and making faces at the target of her words.

“You know Eight-Seven still likes the taste of mama’s milk,” Zeroes finished.

That comment earned him high fives and laughter in the locker room. Eight-Seven was silent, changing into his sleeping clothes as fast and as efficiently as possible. They all had noticed Captain Phasma watching Eight-Seven, and it had made them all uncomfortable. FN-2187 because he didn’t like being noticed. Being noticed led only to humiliation. The other cadets were reacting out of jealousy, even if they would have never admitted it.  

As they filed to their cells, Zeroes leaned over to whisper, “Don’t worry about what I said back there, Eight-Seven.”

“Thanks,” Eight-Seven said softly, surprised at the apparent contrition.

“No problem. You’ll never be man enough for that anyway.”

FN-2187 flushed; he didn’t know why. Relationships and attachments were forbidden, this shouldn’t bother him. Why he was embarrassed about a non-relationship with the Captain, he couldn’t articulate.

Tomorrow would have more drills, and there would be no unnecessary talking.

 

 

 

 

 

_The prince liked to explore the faerie world and all its dark mysteries. The castle itself was full of winding halls and rooms and passages. He had explored it for years and never learned it by heart.  He picked up a thing or two, like the well in the far garden would lead him out of faerieland, and in fact, was his mother’s preferred way to travel. He was never tempted to leave his mother, so he kept clear._

_The castle was his favorite place, full of towers and turrets and arrow windows that have never been used. He liked the portcullis and the bailey and the dungeons and the libraries, one for each color of faerie book. He liked to turn magical pages full of images that moved and danced, but he was not one for studies. His mother never troubled herself to teach him her magics, and the changeling prince never thought to ask. He could learn all he wanted by exploring anyway._

_There were whimsical widow walks and balconies and buttresses. There were stairs that led nowhere and stairs that led everywhere. There were kitchens and wine cellars and armories of golden weapons that have never been used. Who would dare to attack faerieland, after all?  The changeling prince explored them all._

_One day, he troubled himself to explore his mother’s chambers. She had been feasting in the great hall for three days, and was likely to last seven. But he had grown weary of the feast and was resting in her great bed with her careless permission. She was indulgent of her glamoured son who sometimes felt the weight of his shadow. If the changeling prince noticed that he was the only one in faerieland to sleep, he never mentioned it. No one else dared to mention it either._

_Though she almost never used it, her bed was a beautiful affair, with golden sheets and the softest silk blankets. It was tall with curtains all around it to be drawn against drafts and light that did not exist in faerieland._

_When the changeling prince awoke from his sleep, he poked around his mother’s room, and, for the first time, entered her garderobe, which was as dark as any room in faerieland._

_It was another delectable chamber, full of all the gowns and clothing befitting a faerie queen. The prince had never been in this room and played in rows and rows of furs and silks and lovely accessories. He tried things on and danced about and discarded his mother’s finery as easily as he sighed. His own clothes were heavy and dashing, these clothes were light as air and supple as water. There were vanity tables full of powders and potions, lovely paintings and beautiful mirrors so one might check every angle. There were walls of shoes, boots, and dancing slippers in every color._

_The prince turned a corner and saw a giant... thing, covered in a plain white sheet._

_It looked like it might be a free-standing dressing mirror, one of many in this large chamber. The changeling prince wondered why it was covered. And why it was covered with something so simple. It was, he thought, either very beautiful or very dangerous. Or both._

_But the prince was curious, and used to every whim in faerieland bending to his will.  And, he rationalized, if it were actually dangerous, his mother would have put it somewhere safer than the labyrinth of soft and pretty clothes. He was not frightened, he was brave and true, and his mother’s realm was his playground._

_With a sharp tug, he pulled the sheet down and revealed a mirror, exactly as he had expected.  A beautiful mirror._

_It was a gilded thing, and the glass looked black, blacker than even the gloom around him. Even more curious, he crept closer to discover he was right on two counts. This was indeed a dangerous mirror._

_He gasped in surprise as the mirror began to burn him._

_Or rather, in one long moment it burned the faerie glamour completely off his beautiful skin.  When the glamour was gone, his shadow came rushing back behind him, and so to did the knowledge of his family and his name._

_Deimne leaned closer to the mirror and saw himself for the first time in years. He looked exactly like he had in the other faerie mirrors, but his eyes seemed brighter now, not clouded with magic. And he remembered his mother, and being wrapped in white blankets and nursing at her breast. He remembered his brothers, his father, his planet._

_From below, he heard a great scream._

_The faerie queen had sensed that the glamour had been lifted from his body, and she was on her way to him, to do what, he had no idea._

_Deimne ran._

 

 

 

 

 

They all groaned when they were assigned to sanitation, but actually, it wasn’t so bad. Starkiller Base was nothing short of enormous, the size of a large gaseous planet, and Eight-Seven explored every inch of it.  

And the work was mostly done with chemicals. He was pretty good at keeping the water treatment plant running, at fixing alarms in well houses and lift stations. Sometimes they would have to deal with sewage, but their uniforms kept the filth out. The had special masks to keep out the methane which was recycled elsewhere in another treatment plant. Nothing went to waste, not even waste. FN-2187 had a knack for knowing where valves were if something needed to be turned off, and if he didn’t know, he could read the schematics better than anyone.  

Captain Phasma watched his progress with approval.  FN-2187 kept his head down unless he was needed to solve a problem, leaks, clogged drains, pipes bursting from shifting temperatures.  

“Water and waste management is an important job, FN-2187. Not glamorous. Perhaps the most important if this base is to be a functional weapon.”

“Yes, Captain.”

 

 

 

 

 

_The fey were capricious, and having lived in faerieland for almost his whole life, minus one month, Deimne did not expect kindness at the hands of his captors. For truly that is what happened. He was beautiful enough for faerieland, but he had a shadow, so he had never truly belonged. And he had never had a choice. He had been kept in a golden cage, distracted by the beauty around him, but now that he knew the truth, a cage was a cage._

_Without knowing how, he knew he would have to make his escape._

_The faerie queen’s scream had galvanized her court. What was once comforting gloom turned into sinister dark. Deimne with his shadow was dodging dresses and cloaks and fighting his way out of the garderobe, forcing his way through the dark, so thick he could eat it if he had chosen._

_Out of the garderobe and in his mother’s bedroom, the furniture seemed to shuffle about menacingly, as if trying to hold him. He burst through the door anyway, and ran down long hallways and corridors, up and down stairs, most he knew, some he didn’t. He was looking for an exit._

_All the doors he tried were locked, the windows barred, by darkness and magic. No amount of strength in Deimne’s arms could open even the smallest window. He could hear the queen approach, he could hear the faerie court behind her._

_Deimne managed to weave and dodge and outmaneuver her for a time, but the locked doors were inhibiting his escape, his shadow was tired and dragging him back._

_He skidded to a stop at the top of the stairs. She was climbing them, the darkness parted around her like a curtain. Deimne ran back to her bedroom, through her furniture that was still trying to do her bidding. He forced himself into the garderobe and fought his way back to the mirror, picked up the plain white sheet, and threw himself through the mirror._

_He landed hard in a meadow of some kind.  Wasting no time, he wrapped the sheet around him and ran and ran through the grass and the rain and the flowers. Every rustle sounded like the faerie queen, every beat of his heart sounded like a footstep, until he realized that the moon was full and no one had followed. Not knowing better, he assumed this was day. This was more light than he was accustomed to, after all._

_Deimne was exhausted, the gravity here was different, time pulled at him, and his shadow was as heavy as ever. But he knew he could not sleep in a field. He was a human now, not a fey, and humans could be more fragile._

_He found a cowpath, or what he fancied a cowpath might look like, and followed it. He did not know what a cow was, but he hoped they were small. Deimne with his shadow made his way in the moonlight. The path was rough and uneven. The hills and meadows did not look like the hills and meadows in faerieland._

_Finally, he came to a little homestead. There was smoke coming from the chimney and the place was clean and well swept. All the creatures were tucked away in the barn, and even to a boy raised in a faerie castle, he could not deny how cozy and nice it looked._

_But what of the farmer? Would they be kind? Would they chase him off?_

_He was used to faerieland bending to his will, but that welcome had been worn out.  Deimne was afraid to confront a farmer.  And he was afraid to confront a cow.  Or any of the other mysterious beasts that were in the barn._

_Instead, he found a pile of straw that was tucked up in the lee side of a shed, mostly protected from the wind and the rain.  Deimne crawled in and tucked himself up with the scratchy straw. He didn’t remember what mornings looked like, he didn’t know how long humans slept or what time they rose, but he would sleep all day and wait until the bright moon in the sky disappeared and night would fall again._

_He woke to a sharp prod and more light than all the light in faerieland combined._

 

 

 

 

 

“FN-2187, explain yourself,” Captain Phasma said.  

He was alone with her after the training sim - they were supposed to be destroying a new republic bunker in the sim, taking out a giant blaster. Slip had fallen behind again during the advance and Eight-Seven split off from Zeroes and Nines to rescue him. It had been a risk, and he knew they wouldn’t have done the same for him. But Eight-Seven sent Zeroes and Nines in different directions, leaving a clear path for himself. He managed to destroy the blaster with a well placed grenade and the sim was called off by General Hux and Captain Phasma.

“I had to go back for Slip- I mean - FN-2003, Captain.” He tried not to fidget, to remain at attention.

She waved off the comment. “I do not care about FN-2003. What made you think to split up FN-2199 and FN-2000?”

“I thought it might distract them, draw their fire,” Eight-Seven said. “The sim responded to it, and I noticed that they had left a corridor unguarded, so I thought I could at least take out the blaster.”

Phasma nodded. “You were wrong to go back for FN-2003. The mission is more important than any trooper,” she said.

In his helmet, FN-2187 tried to breathe normally. He was being chastised. As much as he hated being noticed, he hated being chastised. He hoped he wouldn’t be sent to conditioning.

“However, your strategy worked and your valor was commendable. You took out the blaster, and you had the highest killrate of any of your fellow cadets.”

FN-2187 gave a little start, surprised at her scant praise.  

“I’ve been watching your for some time, cadet. I think you have the makings of an ideal stormtrooper. Your marks are consistently high, you pick things up quickly. The other cadets would do well to look to you and follow your example.”

“Thank you, Captain,” he said quietly, hoping she wouldn’t be telling the others to look to him. That scrutiny would only draw their ire, something he did not need.

“However,” she continued, “I must insist that the next time, er, Slip, was it? falls behind, you leave them behind.”

Eight-Seven hesitated.

“Well, cadet?”

“Yes, Captain. Thank you, Captain.”  

 

 

 

 

 

_“Who is in my straw?” a voice said, poking him again._

_“Ouch!” said Deimne. He pulled his way out of the straw before she could jab the pitchfork into his side._

_“That’s not a name,” the old woman said._

_He looked at her. She was a bent crone with flashing eyes and looked like she might be a witch. He hoped she would not side with the faerie queen, but he had no other name to give her._

_“I’m Deimne,” he said. “I was running away, and I slept in your straw, I hope I have not hurt anything.”_

_“Did you take anything from the barn?”_

_“No,” he said truthfully._

_“No milk? Or eggs from my chickies?”_

_“No,” he said, a little more insistent._

_She peered at the boy, taking in his bright eyes, dark skin, fancy fearie clothes and the plain white sheet that was wrapped around him._

_“Hmmm,” said the crone, and then surprised him with, “Well, no harm done, young man, and if you’re not in such a hurry, perhaps you can help me to pay for your breakfast.”_

_“Breakfast?” Deimne asked, but she had already turned around and was striding back to her cozy little house. Deimne supposed that was as good an invitation as any and followed her through the yard._

_She prattled on about how she used to have many children to help her and now they had off and had their own adventures or their own children and didn’t come back as often as she liked to help her around the family farm. She threw some eggs in a pan and they sizzled in the hot butter and Deimne asked if he might help her with this._

_“Eh? No, lad, I’m afraid you’d be more of a hindrance than a help,” she said, browning toast, scooping porridge, pouring caf. “You best wash your hands and sit down at the table.”_

_It was a large trestle table, scrubbed clean. Deimne sat down and in a blink, a full feast was in front of him, eggs, bacon, toast, porridge, milk, caf, some kind of juice, berries, cheese. The crone settled across from him, tucked into her own breakfast that was just as hearty. She ate every bite and Deimne was surprised to discover that he was just as ravenous. Food in faerieland was as light as a cloud, sugary sweet. This food reminded him of his mother’s milk, hearty and dense, stick-to-your-ribs kind of food. And it was delicious._

_Finally, they both set down their utensils, wiped their faces and the old crone said, “So, lad, what’s your tale?”_

_“I don’t know what you mean.”_

_The woman rolled her eyes. “I can see stories everywhere, in animal tracks, in my crops before I bring them in, in the bacon grease and my eggs when I crack them. I can see them in the wind and in the stars, and I can see a good one written in your eyes.”_

_The prince shrugged his shoulders._

_“Or I can see a human wearing fine clothes from the faerie court, blinking in the sunlight like he’s never seen a proper dawn before, and I want to know more before I get mixed up in a faerie feud.”_

_She had caught him out then. Deimne told her the whole story, about being born the seventh son of a king, of his sweet mother, his white receiving blanket, and his adoring brothers, and how he was stolen away and raised in faerieland. How he discovered his real past and escaped._

_She let out a low whistle when he was done. “I suppose you’ll be lookin’ for your kin now.”_

_Deimne shrugged. “I do not know what else to do.”_

_The wise woman cocked her head to the side, still studying him as if he was the most interesting face she had ever seen. Deimne felt a little uncomfortable, exposed in the harsh sun beams that shone through her windows._

_“You may yet find your family, young Prince, and you may not. But it almost makes no difference, as all children, faerie or human, must make their own way in the end.”_

_She stood up and began clearing the dishes. He jumped to help her and she allowed it.  She showed him how to wash things clean; she dried them and put them away._

_“Now,” she said. “The real work begins.”_

_And she sent him out to chop some wood._

_The prince decided to stay with the woman for some time. He had to learn how to survive in this human world, and she said if he stayed to help her for a little while, she would be able to help him on his way. So he learned how to take care of crops, harvest them, ready them for winter. He learned to wash and mend and make. He learned to eat and enjoy his food, and even to cook, a little. He learned what cows were, how sweet and soft they were, if you were sweet and soft to them. His muscles grew and strengthened with the work he was doing, pushing plows and chopping wood. His hands grew a little rougher, his hair grew a little longer, he grew a little wiser, and he grew to love the old crone like a grandmother. She would kiss his cheek fondly when he brought her pretty flowers from the meadow, and tuck him into his bed at night.  He learned how to get up with the sun, and go to bed when it did. And so the youth grew into a man, and it was nearly time to leave the crone and seek his own story._

 

 

 

 

 

If Eight-Seven could have had any wish granted in his whole life, it would be that Captain Phasma _hadn’t_ announced his marks the next morning at roll call. That she hadn’t said he was on his way to becoming an ideal trooper. That she would omit that his killrate and his initiative in the sim had been nothing short of daring, “just what the First Order needs. You would all do well to follow his example.”  

She might as well have thrown him to a pack of hungry wolves.  

All day they hounded him, calling him a teacher’s pet or worse.  

He was quietly studying his datapad when Nines, Zeroes, and Slip approached him.  

“How’d you do it, Runt?” Nines hissed, trying not to be overheard in the barracks.

“Do what?” he asked.

Zeroes punched him, hard.  It hurt, but Eight-Seven had been trained as a trooper.

“Are you a cheater?” Slip asked.

“I tried to save you,” Eight-Seven said.

Zeroes punched him again, in the ribs this time, and Eight-Seven dropped his datapad.

 _No_.

“Give it back,” he said, when Slip picked it up.

“So you _are_ cheating?” Zeroes said.  

He and Nines ganged up on him. No one helped. Other cadets watched, and sometimes even cheered when Zeroes or Nines landed a particularly good hit. Eight-Seven didn’t try and fight back; he figured it would be better to let them get rid of their frustrations.

“What’s this?” Slip asked. He looked up from the datapad. “A bed-time story? From mummy Phasma?”

FN-2187 spat blood. The barracks erupted into laughter.

“Ours now,” Nines said.  She gave him one last kick and left him to pick himself up off the floor.

 

 

 

 

 

_“My eldest granddaughter is coming to stay with me,” the old woman said one day._

_Deimne had met all of her children by now, the ones that went adventuring or got fine trades or_ _settled on farms of their own. Her family had not fretted over a stranger living with their matriarch, and actually were rather glad she wasn’t alone, talking to her cows._

_But it was time for Deimne to leave, and they both knew it._

_The day before her granddaughter came, she led him out to the barn and there, hidden in the hayloft in a circle of salt and sage, was a large and heavy broadsword. Carefully, she lifted it up and passed it to him._

_“It is forged from iron,” she said, as he tested the sword in his hands. “Iron is lethal to faeries. If you carry this, you will be protected from the faerie queen.”_

_“She has not troubled me this past year,” Deimne said._

_“My farms are shored up against faerie folk, but the fey are jealous. She is waiting for the right time, but you will meet her again.”_

_Deimne slid the sword in its sheath. The old crone showed him how to attach it to his belt. Before they left the hayloft, she had one more bit of advice for him. She drew him close and whispered._

_“Remember your name._  
_Do not lose hope — what you seek will be found._  
_Trust ghosts. Trust those that you have helped_  
_to help you in their turn._  
_Trust dreams._  
_Trust your heart, and trust your story.”_

_The next morning, she presented him with one more present, a white shirt that she had made from the rough sheet he had taken from the queen’s garderobe. “I don’t know what magic is in that cloth,” she said. But I’ve never worked with anything like it. And if she was using it to protect herself from the mirror, I feel certain it may help protect you.”_

_“Thank you,” he said, nearly moved to tears._

_“None of that,” she said, patting his cheek fondly.  “Now go out into the world. I have taught you all I know, and guarded you as well as I can, and oh, but you’ve given me such good stories to tell the next traveler!”_

_He kissed her cheek, tested his sword, and slowly walked away from her cozy farm that he had called home for a year and a day._

_Deimne walked to the east, following rivers and streams, visiting cities, sleeping in piles of straw. He traveled in broad daylight, and if he had a handful of salt or sage, he would cast it in a circle around him to protect him while he slept._

_He wondered if he could ever go home again, but every time he asked someone if they knew of a planet that was missing a prince, he was met with strange looks and negative answers. He wasn’t sure if he could even go home again, or if his parents would remember him._

_So he kept moving. Deimne bartered his way onto a vessel going to the stars, and he passed in and out of planets, looking for a king and queen that looked like him, with his eyes, for brothers with his nose, his hair. He made friends wherever he went, he learned how to use his sword, barter his work for food, money, a night in a bed._

_He was looking for family, but also, waiting for the faerie queen._

_In the middle of the night, he could sometimes feel her eyes on him, scrying and watching and waiting. Deimne took comfort in his shadow, his shirt, his sword. And the words of the old woman to remember his name. Sometimes in the middle of the night, he would say his name aloud and her scrying prying eyes would let him rest for a few more hours before the sun came up and he moved._

_Deimne was wandering in the wilderness, though this planet seemed to be nothing but wilderness. He had heard the rulers of this planet had lost a child, but it seems they lost a daughter, not a son named Deimne. They had not heard of a lost prince, so he walked on and on, coming to a place that was full of trees. The ground seemed fertile, and it was dotted with lovely pools.  Deimne sat down at one, rested, drank, and washed himself._

_“It has been a long time, my son,” an unearthly voice said._

_He breathed in her words, then out again. They were tempting, but he would not be seduced._

_“I am not your son,” he said lightly, and stood to face her._

_She kept to the shadows of the trees; the faerie queen looked weak in the light. Deimne could not afford to pity her- to do so would be to underestimate her. He casually placed his hand on the hilt of his iron sword. She noticed, her eyes followed his hand._

_“Ah, but I did raise you from a welp into a fine and strong youth who ran away from me.”_

_“You fed me on shadows and darkness,” Deimne allowed. “But I thrive in the light, it seems.”  He held up his sword and his muscles rippled. He was healthy and strong, and braver than before.  His dark skin looked beautiful in the sunlight. Even his shadow looked strong._

_The faerie queen winced at the iron and the sunlight that it reflected, but she was desperate, and he was still beautiful, the jewel of her faerie court._

_Her voice grew cold. “You betrayed me, my darling. And I am afraid that betrayal of a faerie means only death. But if you repent and return with me, I promise, now that you know you are not my son, I shall make you my king.”_

_He thought of his name, over and over and over again. “No, thank you. I do not think I should like being king, especially not of faerieland.”_

_“So be it,” she said darkly._

_Before Deimne had a chance to react, she held up her hands and the dark magics she had refined were unleashed from her fingertips. But the old woman’s shirt that was made of the plain sheet protected Deimne from all harm._

_She screamed in frustration._

_Deimne did not hesitate this time. He rushed forward, wielding his sword. He did not cut her, he knew he would not need to. Rather, he passed the iron on her bare skin, and she screamed again, this time in agony._

_“Please,” he said. “I do not want to destroy you. But you must promise not to capture anything simply because it pleases you.”_

_She cupped her iron burn, healing it instantly with her magics. Looking up, she grinned at the boy she raised. Her smile was feral and it raised all the hairs on the back of Deimne’s neck._

_“My darling, I am afraid you learned nothing in faerieland.” She straightened up and was about to cast another magic, more powerful than before._

_And again, Deimne could not and did not hesitate. He took his sword and ran her through where her heart would be had she been human. But the iron sword did its work, and though she was a heartless creature, the being Deimne had called mother for so long breathed her last breath._

_Deimne, who had not intended to kill her, felt many emotions rising within him, but mostly he felt empathy for the faerie who could not go against her own nature. He buried her in the fertile soil around him and cleaned his sword. He bathed in a pool, drank from another one, and took a great shuddering breath._

 

 

 

 

 

Fights in the barracks had happened before, they’d happen again. They were rarely discovered, as stormtrooper armor covered every inch of skin. Captain Phasma would never see FN-2187’s split lip or swollen eyes. And FN-2187 wasn’t about to report anyone.  Even if he were to report, the expectation would the that he had fought back, and he hadn’t. This would not earn the respect of Phasma, Hux, the First Order. Better to swallow your tongue and hope no one noticed the missing datapad. It was so old, perhaps no one would care.

However, Captain Phasma was still flushed with his accomplishments and confident with his fellow cadets. Their unit was deployed to a mining colony called Pressy’s Tumble in the Outer Rim to restore order after a Republic infiltration.  Apparently a spy had turned up trouble and now they were being sent to restore order.  

But really, the miners were desperate, and as a last ditch effort, they were striking against harsh conditions. FN-2187 had never seen anyone strike before. Demanding better conditions wasn’t something you could do, was it? These miners didn’t have any power to actually change anything. No one did. Otherwise order couldn’t be kept.

Captain Phasma led their unit to the negotiators and gave the order that they be executed.

And Eight-Seven couldn’t do it. He aimed his rifle at a negotiator and choked. Slip had killed him instead.

“Told ya he was a runt,” he heard someone muttering after they left the room of carnage.  

He felt too sick to care. Killrates in a sim were one thing. Kills against the living? That was something else. There was no pleasure in this. He hated it.

Captain Phasma was deathly silent as they were transported back to Starkiller Base.  

There was a little chatter in the transporter, but not much. They were all tired after their first encounter. Upon their return, they were told to clean their weapons, shower, go to the mess, and get to bed by 1900 hours. And that they were officially stormtroopers now- that had been their first mission, and a success at that.  Phasma was satisfied.  A great cheer went up and everyone was in high spirits and good moral as they followed their orders. Zeroes and Nines were especially obnoxious, cracking jokes at the expense of the miners they had slaughtered.

FN-2187 followed the orders in silence. Thinking.  

He wasn’t allowed to think very long when he was summoned to Captain Phasma’s office just after mess.  He felt the eyes of his unit on him as he left.

General Hux was there.  Eight-Seven swallowed.

“FN-2187, I am disappointed with how today went,” she said.

“Yes, Captain.” His voice was muffled by his helmet, but it was no use hiding his fear.  

Hux crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.  

“Should we send him to reconditioning?” he suggested.

FN-2187 tried not to tremble.  

“FN-2187 is the best trooper in his unit. The others are supposed to be looking to him. Sending him to reconditioning would be nothing short of demoralizing,” Captain Phasma said.

“What do you suggest then,” Hux said. He leaned forward on her desk, his weight on his hands. He was staring into the eyeholes of Eight-Seven’s mask.  

“I suggest deploying him and his unit to Jakku tomorrow. He’ll fight back when those Force loving villagers push a blaster in his face,” said Phasma. “Won’t you, FN-2187.”

It wasn’t a question. Eight-Seven swallowed back his terror. “Yes, Captain.”

“Very good,” said Phasma. “Back to your barracks, trooper.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Hux said as he left.

“You’ve never doubted me before,” Phasma replied.

The door _snicked_ shut and FN-2187 couldn’t hear another word.

 

 

 

 

 

_After the quiet funeral of the faerie queen, prince Deimne said his name aloud, grasped his sword, and went to the stars to seek his true family._


End file.
